Eat my dust, Braginski
by mmmmmaple
Summary: hockeysmut to fulfill a tumblr prompt.


_Forgive me the re-post, but I ended up rather liking it. Thank you, anon. :)_

_**Anonymous asked: Ivan and Matvey please! Shower sexiness or hockey sexiness?**_

_I don't even know if it makes sense. I promised myself I'd never write a Canada/Russia hockey fic but whatever~! I hope this is what you wanted! Hockey and sex. I feel patriotic just thinking about it._

* * *

It begins when Matthew climbs over the bed, making every effort to be stealthy (to no avail; the sound of the shower had woken Ivan fifteen minutes ago). Ivan smiles and stirs as the weight on the bed suddenly halts in place. "It is so rare for Matvey to awaken before I do," he says, tone chiding and entirely playful.

Matthew's wet hair trails across Ivan's shoulder as he plants soft kisses along his neck. Ivan bites his lip with a genuine smile as his heart pumps overtime. "I was just thinking," Matthew murmurs, breath warm and tingling against his cheek, "that we should play today."

"That," Ivan responds merrily as he rolls over and plants his hands next to each of Matthew's sloping shoulders, pressing him into the bed with a gentle distribution of his weight, "is one summons I cannot refuse."

Matthew closes his eyes. His face is framed by rays of damp golden curls and, not for the first time, Ivan's breath catches in his throat as he thinks that his graceful lover must be from another world, for he shines brighter than the sun. The plump lips part and Ivan hopes that when his Matvey takes a breath, it is _him_ he breathes in (he does suspect as much, for when they are close like this, the corners of that precious mouth curve ever-so-slightly upwards).

"G-good," Matthew breathes, stammering slightly as Ivan's fingers lightly trail his ribs. "I'm going to take you down."

"Is that a promise?"

* * *

They sit next to each other on the bleachers, both smiling proudly as they lace up their skates. Each is confident and ready for a challenge (_the_ challenge, many would argue); Ivan hums and Matthew intermittently busies himself with pushing his stray curl back under his toque or wiggling his glasses around on his nose.

"Are you ready?"

"Da, _solnyshko_," Ivan stands and smiles with brilliant mauve eyes crinkling in the corners. Extending one leather-gloved hand to Matthew, he asks, "are you?"

Matthew grins and grabs hold of the hand with his own. "_Skazshi chto lyubish menya_?"

Ivan blinks and his heart threatens to leap from his chest as it always does when Matthew speaks to him so tenderly in Russian. "I love you," he confirms, staring straight at the faint freckles under Matthew's long lower lashes.

"_Et moi aussi, je t'aime_," Matthew murmurs, pink-tinged, before his vivid gaze meets and holds Ivan's own. "Now get ready to eat my dust, Braginski."

Ivan releases Matthew's mitten and grabs their sticks, patting his coat for the puck. Turning his back and heading down the steps to the ice, he makes Matthew a prediction. "I think it is you who will be the loser in this little game, Williams. And when you are, know that it will be a bitter defeat."

He can almost feel Matthew's pupils contract before expanding exponentially, and the thought provokes the hair on his arms and neck to rise in anticipation.

* * *

When Ivan scores, he performs an easy, exhilarated circle around the net and Matthew retaliates by shoving him into the boards. Ivan grins, and less than a moment later, the Canadian is checked so hard into the boards that he tumbles to the ice on all fours, coughing blood. Ivan is not overly concerned; he knows Matthew can easily take three or four times the damage.

But two pairs of violet eyes are clouded and focused when Ivan drops the puck a second time.

* * *

Matthew scores after fifteen exhausting minutes of playing keep-away, with a thoroughly pleased fist pump and an impressive spray of ice as he slides to a stop. Every part of Ivan's body screams for blood, incensed that such a tiny wisp could have gotten past his iron defense. But he concedes the goal with considerable grace, deferring to the superior acrobatic darting of the blonde.

His graciousness extends to Matthew dropping the puck with a frenzied glint behind his glasses (one that Ivan can only imagine pales in comparison to his own, considering his wounded pride). In less than a moment, Matthew goes flying ass-backwards into the ice to avoid a strategically-placed high sticking.

Dusting the ice off his mittens, the blonde glares up at the Russian and Ivan is thoroughly hard-pressed not to drag the boy off the ice and show him what comes to those who would dare show such defiance.

"Fuck you," Matthew spits, blood cresting his lower lip (that ever-so-biteable lip). "You'd better get the fuck ready."

"Oh, your empty threats are delightful," Ivan chirps, full of menace, as he skates away and leaves Matthew to rise on his own.

* * *

And, Ivan reflects as his face connects with the ice, this is _delightful_.

"Got anything to say?" Matthew crows as he smacks Ivan's net, gloating at the little black disk safely nestled within.

"Well played?" Ivan manages before Matthew has skated to center ice, ready to drop the puck.

* * *

Nearly two hours have passed before Ivan ties the game. Matthew may or may not have a sprained ankle and possibly a broken finger; that is hardly a concern next to the elation of dodging his fiercely speedy defenses.

"_Suka_."

It is only seconds before Ivan is flat on his stomach, rolling onto his back just in time to catch Matthew skate a pretty circle too close to him and hiss, "did you really think you could get away with calling me a bitch?"

Ivan giggles.

Matthew is on him in a second and a fierce fist connects with Ivan's jaw in a delicious explosion of pain.

"_Calisse et crisse en tabarnak_!" He spits blood onto the ice as Matthew swings at his nose, shouting, "_tu pense-tu que c'est drôle_?"

And he knows he shouldn't provoke the lethal little thing whose thighs crush his waist in a visegrip, he knows he shouldn't say anything else.

"A little funny, maybe," he says thickly.

"Damn it," Matthew bitterly glances up at the giant clock above the arena. His cheeks remain the brilliant pink of a sunrise on snow but his stormy eyes clear as he blinks, adjusting his undoubtedly broken glasses. "It's been two hours. That's time."

"Ah," Ivan concedes lightly, despite every fiber of his mind telling him otherwise. "So it is."

* * *

Ivan grasps the tap, sidestepping the inevitable minute of what feels like ice before the faucet runs with sorely-needed hot water. He relaxes into the current and places one palm against the tile to help steady his shaking legs. With a deep breath, he plunges his head under the steady flow. In the midst of the building steam and the blissful cascade of warmth, Ivan's mind wanders.

Not even Sweden puts up such a nasty fight, and Berwald could be a vicious foe on the ice. He packs a punch that could probably put a train out of commission. Even little Finland brings his most savage side forward in the game.

And America, America could be a nice challenge - there is something about beating Alfred that just brings a certain rush, probably leftover irritation from years of conflict. But it isn't nearly the same as crushing Matthew; beating Alfred is usually not even a question when the time for serious play rolls around.

There are other opponents, but at the same time, there are none; Matvey brings a spark, the feeling humans must get when they realize they might die - and it is that, he thinks (not for the first time), that most every other game lacks.

Because when you plays the Canadian, you play your damnedest. And If you aren't playing to win, you will unquestionably be beaten into the ice in a matter of minutes. Perhaps Matthew is sweeter and more polite to those who are not as good, he even gives advice, but those are the nations who will not see the same steel in every ounce of his body.

Some nations trade, some nations bicker, some nations fight, but it Canada who destroys on the rink.

When his beautiful eyes grow dark with rage, it is truly frightening. Gone is any trace of his sweet Matvey, gone is the polite and quiet nation, replaced with something that could level the entire arena if he is pushed to it. It is his release.

Ivan runs a hand over himself; the very thought of sweet Matvey, in that state, is thrilling.

"I-Ivan?"

His gaze, fueled by leftover adrenaline, is quick to flick to the door. Ivan ceases all movement and takes a shuddering breath because, with one simple step forward, Matthew undoes him.

His silky curls are a mess, so much more so than it had seemed when he had his helmet on; his head is tinged with crimson and his cheeks are flushed. He bites at the swollen, bloody lower lip as if wanting to speak but being too hesitant.

"Matvey," Ivan says hoarsely, wincing at the obvious need in his voice. "You have your own change room, da?"

"I do."

Ivan has a hard time forming words in any language as the blonde pulls off first his mittens, then peels off his jacket, followed by his undershirt. Standing there, skates, helmets, and clothes piled on the bench, Matthew fidgets with his belt.

Ivan sighs, fairly certain that he is even more pink than Matthew (but at least he can try to blame it on the steam), and faces the tile.

"C-can… I?"

But before Ivan has a chance to respond, the sound of fabric dropping to the floor reaches his ears and a pair of cold arms encircle his chest. He gasps sharply as Matthew's cool body molds to his own; a forehead meets his shoulder and he can't help but stand absolutely still.

"I broke your nose." It is nearly impossible to overhear him over the noise of the water, but Ivan smiles.

"Da, well, nothing can be done of it!" Summoning his courage, he shifts awkwardly in the blonde's light embrace and turns to face him.

Ivan admires his handiwork with a smile.

"It's not as bad as it looks," Matthew says demurely, lashes low as he nibbles at his split lip.

"_Dorogoy_," Ivan comforts, smoothing the flaxen hair back until Matthew finally meets his eyes with a bashful look.

"I c-can't help it," Matthew stammers, eyes a liquid violet under thick lashes. "I'm a monster."

Before Ivan can speak, a delicate hand brushes underneath his nose and his skin tingles under the soft touch. Matthew pulls his fingers away and stares at the red that dissolves off of them into the shower.

Ivan wants to ignore the bruising on the left cheek and an angry welt on the collarbone, but he can't; just the sight of those marks is so darkly thrilling. He caresses the soft, creamy skin of Matthew's face, of his throat, of his shoulders and feels the blonde shiver under his touch just as surely as he feels own his chest rise and fall quickly.

Matthew rises on toes, pressing his hands onto Ivan's broad shoulders for balance, and whispers something he never once thought he would hear from that mouth: "You like it, don't you?"

Ivan feels like the floor has fallen out from under him and has no words, so instead, he offers a sharp gasp and stares hard at the white-tiled ceiling.

"Would you like it if I pushed you, just a little, just enough?" he murmurs, breath hot against his neck as a pair of warm palms smooth their way over Ivan's chest.

He wants to protest, to say that this is hardly the best place to become intimate, that someone could walk in early but his heart races as he is unable to ignore the gentle pressure being applied to his own array of fresh bruises and cuts; so he presses his lips to Matthew's forehead and whispers, "I am not certain that you want to know the answer."

"Oh?"

Matthew effectively melts Ivan's heart with a doe-eyed blink, only to grab him and push him up against the opposing wall. Grimacing at the cold hardness, Ivan grabs a pair of tense wrists and, in one smooth movement, propels the blonde into the flow of water, pressing his flushed face to the wall and collecting his hands more comfortably behind the lightly-scarred expanse of Mathew's back.

Sometimes it is easy to forget just how tall and how strong the boy is, Ivan considers as he traces the slight curve of a pale thigh to hip, then from hip to waist, from waist up his spine to tangle firmly in the wet locks. Matthew's lips part and Ivan observes the rapid rise and fall of his chest approvingly.

"This was your plan all along, was it not?" His tone is a shade darker than playful and his vision darkens in the corners. Matthew squeezes his eyes closed and shakes his head, wincing only slightly when Ivan twists his wrists.

"Do not lie to me, Matvey."

"Bonus," he huffs, and the word could have been in French or in English, considering the heavy inflection.

Ivan smiles and presses his slick chest to Matthew's back and watches the water bead on slender shoulders and slide down his arms. The blonde squirms experimentally, only for Ivan to maintain his grip.

"Open your eyes," he commands gently. Matthew does, and Ivan exhales, effectively pressing his lover against the wall. Violet meets violet as Ivan whispers, "I will see every part of your face as you plead for me."

Matthew shivers, jaw set firmly and eyes moist and imploring.

"This is what you wanted, da?" Ivan asks as he presses his lips to Matthew's skin and leans down to plant lazy kisses along his throat, neck, and between his shoulder blades.

"I've wanted you ever since I woke up this morning," Matthew whimpers and Ivan takes this moment to appreciate how good his Matvey makes him feel - how youthful, how full of life. Matthew speaks through heavy breaths, words growing more and more fractured, "I h-had this dream… and you… and I c-couldn't sleep…"

"And did it hurt, like our game?" he asks seriously in a vague reference to the two-hour match, as his free hand sneaking around the bump of Matthew's hip to grasp his slick, hot erection. The unadulterated gasp doesn't go unnoticed.

"N-no," Matthew pants, his eyes heavy-lidded. Ivan breathes a sigh of relief; the only place he would dream of hurting his lover is on the ice.

"Good," he sighs against Matthew's neck, ignoring his own painful need in favour of hearing the delightful little moans. "You are so good, Matvey."

"P-please," Matthew entreats.

Ivan smiles patiently, more than willing to wait as he continues to stroke and kiss the hot skin of Matthew's volatile body.

"V-Vanya," he finally urges, lighting Ivan's nerves on fire. "I've needed you all day."

Ivan releases his wrists and Matthew immediately plants them on the wall for support. "You ask so nicely," he says and grasps Matthew by the hips (so perfectly do they fit together, he notices fondly; it is if they were made to fit one around the other) and, without warning or preparation, he presses in.

Matthew lets out a whimper and screws his eyes shut. Ivan smiles to prevent himself from sheathing his entire length in one quick movement and distracts himself by demanding Matthew turn his face around, for those stunning eyes to open again before he presses forward, sinking in just a little further. Matthew claws the wall uselessly, and finally hisses for Ivan to _move, please, please move_.

So he does; rocking gently, allowing Matthew to adjust until the blonde lets out a sharp cry of "Ivan!" and that is his cue. He drives into his lover as Matthew bends further at the waist, moaning and gasping for more as Ivan obliges, dragging his fingers over the throbbing shaft in his hand, flicking his thumb over the tip.

With the warmth of the water cascading from above, cleaning their wounds and soothing their bodies, Ivan fucks Matthew into an unintelligible mess of heavy limbs and glorious, praising moans. And Ivan watches as his Matvey throws his head back, suddenly bereft of sound, and he removes his hand from his hip to tangle his fingers in the golden hair to pull gently at _the_ curl. "_Vanya_," Matthew gasps as he releases a hot and sticky stream into Ivan's hand and onto the floor of the shower.

Ivan smiles, knowing he cannot last for much longer, not when Matvey repeats his name and the silk-smooth tightness closes in on him over and over as if to demand his release. He climaxes with one hand bracing him against Matthew's chest, the other still entangled lovingly in his hair.

They stand still together for a long moment before, alarmed, Ivan pulls away.

"What time does the team come in to play?"

"Not until five," Matthew assures him sleepily, wobbly-legged. "Oh… but the public skate."

"Oh no…"

"Um, we should probably go. B-but I don't know if I can move."

Ivan smiles, reluctantly pulling out and quickly cleaning off. "If you can make it out of here, I will stop for beer for you and we can have whatever you want for dinner."

"And watch the rerun game highlights?" Matthew asks as he takes over the water with an immediate sparkle in his eye.

"Whatever you wish," Ivan says calmly and starts the hunt for Matthew's glasses.

* * *

_Matthew asks if Ivan loves him and later on, Ivan calls him a bitch, then Matthew swears atrociously in Quebequois, and asks him if he thinks this is funny._


End file.
